Mine Forever
by The Deepest Wells
Summary: AU ending to One Ring to Desire Him, for Frodo/Delamarth shippers. This is how the story would have been if it weren't a canon, tragic one. :) Series of one-shots.
1. Change of Heart and Mind

**Dedicated to Diem Kieu and isaacmarble5, as well as any other Frodo/Delamarth shippers. I hope this is a decent ending for those who would rather a nice, angsty ending to a tragic or sequel one. ;) This was meant to be a one-shot, but it looks like it'll be two or three. :) Thanks to all who read!**

Frodo scrambled to the edge of the cliff. Watching her fall over the side frightened him; he waited for her screams to fill the air, but they never did.

"Wait!" He slipped over the side just as she undid the cloth of her dress from the rock of the precipice overlooking her doom. She began to fall, but didn't get far before Frodo grabbed ahold of her wrist. "Don't go!" He started to drag her upwards, but the blood on his hand caused her to slip down. "Don't let go!" He swallowed. "Come on. We can get out of here, both of us!"

Delamarth stared up at him longingly. "I thought I wouldn't see you alive." She smiled through her tears. "You are a wonderful creature, Frodo. I wish I could have deserved you, and I wish I could have loved you."

"You did!" Frodo insisted. "You do; I know that now." The very rumblings of Mount Doom quieted around him as he allowed his realization to sink in: he believed she loved him, and he believed he loved her too. He realized that had to be the reason he'd feared watching her die for so long, feared his quest and almost wanted to fail. "And Sauron is ready to die. Let him go; come with me."

Frodo held out his other hand to Delamarth. She stared up at him, then glanced back down at Sauron. She had so much to evaluate, but when her eyes returned to his all that flew right out of her.

"But I've hurt you."

Sauron slipped away behind her as she did her best to let him go, but he wasn't dead just yet. She battled with herself, trying to decide if she wanted to stay with the one she loved only to increase his hurt, pour salt on the wound she had inflicted all this time and hadn't been able to stop.

Frodo shook his head. "No. You haven't hurt me; I have. I let my greed get in the way, and I lost my finger as a result. I almost lost you too." He swallowed, and behind Delamarth the volcano swelled angrily. The lava quickly covered Sauron, and while Delamarth sat there trying to decide if he meant it Frodo knew they were running out of time. He reached down and grabbed her waist, yanking her up from within the mountain.

Before she could protest, Frodo yanked her along. "Come on!" He scooped up Sting from the ground and grabbed Sam's shoulder; seeing his urgency, Delamarth grabbed Sam as well, hurrying him along faster than Frodo could with his lack of strength. The disoriented gardener stared up at her, then glanced at Frodo, then back at Sauron's fading helmet in the light of the volcano.

Delamarth dragged the two hobbits to a rise in the lava, then stared around for a way out. Now that she had forsaken Sauron she felt dizzy and weak, but she had to get Frodo away from here. And he would never get over it if they lost Sam, so she had to get them both out. She hadn't the capability to become her old self, either; she was quickly changing into whatever Frodo found most optimal, and would never be able to turn back.

She didn't want to become anything detrimental to him.

Delamarth couldn't find any paths in the lava: they were trapped. She reached out to the land of Mordor, summoning its power, only to crumple from a shock of pain through her gut. If she tried any harder, her lack of control and the failure of the land could kill her. She initially stepped back from the prospect, searching for some alternative, something else she could do. She didn't have time, but for a moment the instinct to survive was the only thing that mattered.

Then Frodo sank to the rock by her side.

"Perhaps we are made to die here," he managed, laying his head peacefully down. "Sauron is defeated."

Sam opened his mouth to agree; Delamarth protested before he could say another word. "No!" She glared up at Sam as she collapsed by Frodo. With her last threads of power she sensed the failure of his body, the numbed desire for food, water, and healing that Frodo dare not search fruitlessly for. Her hands roamed his torso, feeding energy into his lungs.

"Just keep breathing," she muttered. She studied him, and as she quickly analyzed her options she realized in spite of her rescue perhaps this would be the last time she ever saw him. Her gaze rose to a broken path through the lava, and if she could raise stone just between those increments he and Sam could get out of the volcano's range.

Delamarth wrestled with herself; die with him or die and watch him live on?

She'd already made that decision inside. It was only hard now because he was suddenly handed back to her in there; for once she'd felt hope. And now, as her eyes flickered over his exhausted, handsome features, she felt hope again, not for herself but for the one she loved.

She stroked his cheek softly, brushing some of the blood from his skin. Frodo's expression grew wide and confused, and he reached up to touch her when he realized perhaps she'd accepted the fact that they were going to die here: she studied him so intently he thought she was going to do something drastic. She met his touch halfway, kissing his palm.

"I'll be back in a moment, love," she whispered. He wanted to follow, but he couldn't stand.

Delamarth approached Sam, grabbing his shirt collar. The hobbit lifted his hands to defend himself, but she glared at him until he put them down.

"Samwise Gamgee, you have a mission." She tried to sound angry or assertive, but she couldn't manage it—her voice cracked within moments. "Carry Frodo and start running. Don't stop until you're out of range of the lava." Her eyes sank shut, and she turned away. "And tell him I love him."

She stared up at the stone to raise a path, but a raspy whisper from behind cut her off. Frodo heard her clearly, as though there were no explosions and there was no war.

"I love you too."

He wished he could have told her sooner.

Delamarth couldn't even look back at him; the frustration and agony of realization that he would never be hers, even though she'd finally won, drove a great cry from her lungs. With the power of her voice the path before her stabbed its way through the lava, jutting out in a great line across Mordor into the distance.

"Samwise, grab him!" Delamarth shouted; she trembled in place, and her body slacked to the ground. She heaved in powerful breaths to keep living, but her essence quickly drained away. She struggled and fought for her life. She at least had to see him safely out of here.

Sam got the message after overpowering his initial shock. He quickly scooped Frodo off the ground; the lava threatened to destabalize the earth above it, and some of the rock crumbled beneath Frodo's limp body. Sam raced past the crumpling Delamarth with Frodo to the rock path, but the moment Frodo could process opening his eyes, he spotted Delamarth on the ground.

"Sam!" He wrested from his friend's arms, landing solid on the ground. Sam protested, but Frodo had eyes only for Delamarth's body on the ground. The lava rise approached her quickly; Frodo limped back down the path and grabbed Delamarth by her slim shoulders. He dragged her down the rock as best he could in spite of his lack of strength. Sam quickly caught up to him, and the two hobbits assisted each other as well as the Ring as far away from the mountain as they could get.

Soon, though, Frodo frantically ordered Sam to run. He hefted Delamarth into his arms and pursued his gardener as they raced across the rocky earth of Mordor, just sloped enough that the lava persisted with them.

Delamarth groaned in Frodo's arms, and although his breath heaved he managed to hear her.

"Put me down," she murmured. "I'm going to die anyway."

The fire licked at Frodo's feet, and he jumped. "No!" He sprang with Sam around the stone; he could see a small rise close by, where the lava wouldn't pursue them until it overflowed. He squeezed Delamarth close to him. "Hold on, Delamarth; we'll make it. Hold on."

His voice was all she heard before her world went black.


	2. Heal All Wounds

**Diem Kieu: Yes, yes you did. :D It's probably going to be longer than I expected, but it is a few one-shots. Not as much angst as the actual stories, but hopefully good for Frodo/Delamarth shippers. Thanks so much for reviewing! I hope you like. X)**

After greeting Gandalf and the rest of the Fellowship, Frodo politely asked the wizard where Delamarth was. Gandalf paused.

"Delamarth?"

"The girl," Frodo clarified. "She was with us . . . a very beautiful woman, not hobbit but halfling. Where is she?"

Gandalf mused for a moment. "I'm not sure, Frodo. I did not see you arrive; Aragorn and Legolas will know what happened to her." Then his brow furrowed. "Who is this Delamarth? You mentioned nothing of her in your tale."

After a pause, Frodo blurted his words. "She is a friend of ours," he admitted. He almost told Gandalf he loved her and that this was urgent, but he managed to keep himself in check. "Please; if you find her let me know. Her eyes are stark gold, and her hair is black."

"I shall let you know if I find her, my lad," Gandalf said, patting Frodo's shoulder. They talked for a few more minutes before Gandalf stepped out.

Frodo settled back amongst the white pillows, breathing a gentle sigh. He had almost drifted off to sleep, letting his wounds settle and his shock fade, when a whisper flickered through the air and pierced his exhausted mind.

"Goodbye, love."

He didn't dare open his eyes for fear she would not be there, but a soft finger whispered against his cheek and her lips brushed his forehead.

Then her warm presence departed, and Frodo's eyes bulged with realization. "Don't go," he pleaded, randomly throwing his hand out in front of him. He scrambled and caught her fingers, dragging her back to his side.

Delamarth sucked in a breath as he sat up. Much as she wanted to stay, circumstance seemed determined to drive them apart, and she had no doubt there was a purpose to it.

"Frodo . . ." She sighed shakily. "You have to let go. I've hurt you too much."

Frodo stared her up and down; he had that innocent light in his eyes again, and it attracted her more deeply than she ever intended to let on. She bit her lip and turned away, but Frodo wouldn't have it. After all they'd gone through he never would let her go, and he didn't need to. If she could hurt him as a Ring, she could repair him as a human—as a friend—as a wife.

The hobbit swallowed: he had no other choice at this point. If he attempted to ease into a deeper relationship with her she would be gone.

A hint of a smile crept onto his face as he wrapped his other hand around hers. His heartbeat quickened; he'd never imagined being able to do this with a clear conscience, without the wrenching consequences of losing her or being greedy for her. But if he loved her—and he believed he did—then this made perfect sense to all aspects of his being.

He lifted himself off the bed and managed to bring himself to one knee. "Delamarth . . ."

The Ring protested. "Frodo, get off the floor; this will do you no good." She yanked against him, but she was not as strong anymore, and Frodo maintained his place.

"Perhaps," Frodo murmured, "but at least I will have tried." He breathed carefully and spoke again. "Delamarth." He kissed her hands, one right after the other, and she faltered in place. "I love you." Delamarth's lower lip shivered, and she bit it to quell the movement as he kept going. "Now that the burden is gone and Sauron is defeated, you are all mine and I am all yours. If indeed you have hurt me, you are the only one that can change me back."

Delamarth's eyes sank shut. She felt so vulnerable, as though his every move controlled her like the dealings of a chessmaster. "How do you know that?"

"Because I am not whole without you," Frodo persisted; his need raced like a horse down a mountain slope. "You asked me to marry you first, but now that we are together, it is my privilege to ask it of _you._ And if it does not suit you now . . . please, explain to me why. I'll do anything." His voice dropped, and he rose to his feet. His forehead met hers. "Anything."

Delamarth whimpered in the back of her throat. She argued with herself for a long moment, but concluded that he wanted it, and if he knew what hurt him and what didn't, then this was right. "Yes," she admitted at last. She nodded hastily. "A million times, yes. Take me for all that I am."

Frodo embraced her; she let out a soft cry, wrapping her arms solidly around his shoulders. Her fingers fluttered over his back, up his neck, into his hair, down again. She felt suddenly full, free, complete in a way power could never have accomplished. It fulfilled her to be loved, and know she cared about him enough to make any sacrifice, as though she had something to believe and invest in.

Then, psychologically, the tables turned, in her mind and in his. She pulled away from him and remembered everything. Mostly she remembered how much she'd always wanted him, how much she wanted him now and that she knew he was hers.

"My precious Frodo," she sighed, tracing the hair back from his eyes. A familiar tingle of nervousness flooded through Frodo at the way she searched him; now he knew what she was looking for. She studied him to understand herself, to find about him what she loved most.

At the moment, that was his mere touch, the simple pleasure of his presence.

Delamarth lifted her fingers and let them fall limp. Frodo's heart thumped nervously as her relaxed hand spread out over his chest, followed by the other. With a lurch he squeezed her close.

Now Delamarth felt entirely in her element; he'd never really held her for a reason like this before, and it felt right to her. She reached up and kissed his cheek, distant. Frodo's eyes flickered as he could suddenly accept the contact: it would take some getting used to, but something in him was ready to take this for what it was worth.

"So . . ." Delamarth started, pecking his nose. Frodo sucked in a breath. "Does this mean we go north?" She dotted kisses along his jaw, gaining speed as she spoke around her own movement. "Never to be seen again?"

A flutter of panic raced through Frodo. "Not entirely," he said, his voice shaky. "We have to get an officiated marriage first . . . and I must say goodbye to Sam."

Delamarth nodded distantly. "But outside of the little details,"—she wrapped her arms around his neck—"you're mine forever. Aren't you?"

That last statement was no question, but Frodo nodded all the same. His arms withdrew from her waist, and his hands replaced them. "You've left me little room for refusal," he admitted, lowering his forehead against hers. He swayed against the floor, and after she caught on she moved with him. He let his eyes sink closed, but she didn't want to lose the image of him if she didn't have to, so she continued to watch.

"Is that the only reason you said yes?"

Frodo shook his head gently. "I love you, I told you. I wouldn't leave it to anyone else to take care of me."

Delamarth leaned up to kiss him, until that last half sentence made it out of his mouth. Then she halted, settling back on her feet. "You're right," she murmured. She sat him down on the bed, and he stared up at her questioningly. She wrapped her hand solidly in the fold of his shirt, and before he could yelp a protest she rounded it off his shoulder. He scrambled back, but she gave him a solid glare.

"I'm aware of your morals, Frodo Baggins," she chided. "I'm not going to do anything to you."

He settled at last, and she nodded stiffly. She reached forward, cupping her fingers around her mouth. Frodo didn't like the way she leaned towards him, and he initially backed away. Delamarth frowned and grabbed the back of his neck to bring him forward, then cupped her free hand again and pressed it solidly in a tunnel protruding from his Morgul stab wound. She breathed through her hand, and the warmth of it sent a powerful, rocking shiver through Frodo's shoulder and chest. He struggled there, and Delamarth forced him back into place, continuing to exhale.

The shiver grew more and more powerful, dragging a great, cold weight from within Frodo's body. Delamarth snapped her teeth together, and the weight broke away from Frodo's skin. He cried out, and she let him fall back onto the bed, his lungs heaving. She held the chunk of poison in her hand, the cells of Frodo's blood and muscle tissue that had become wraithlike. No doubt it would take him a few months to recover fully.

Frodo strained to sit up; now his skin was pale. "What . . . what did you do?" he managed.

Delamarth threw the ball of tissue behind her shoulder; it squelched against the floor, and Frodo winced.

"Healed you," she said simply. "I hope you feel better."

Frodo shifted in place, trying to readjust his shirt, but she grabbed the other sleeve and shoved it over his shoulder. With the added lack of sleeve on the other side, the baggy shirt slid down to his wrists. Frodo opened his mouth to send her off, but she poked her finger into Shelob's sting. Frodo gasped and doubled over from the bite of pressure as Delamarth twisted her fingertip, then cupped her free hand under it to catch the streaming liquid. Frodo barreled his face into her shoulder, squeezing his eyes shut against the pain.

Delamarth threw that behind her as well, and Frodo slacked with weakness against the bed.

"Don't worry," she said; her voice softened as she surveyed him. "You'll feel better in a minute."

Frodo's eyes flickered. "Feels like it'll be longer than a minute," he muttered.

With that statement, Delamarth's shoulders slumped, and she sat down beside him. She lifted his torso into her arms, holding him close to her. Frodo reached up and covered her fingers with his. He almost berated himself for touching her, until he realized that it was all right, and hopefully she wouldn't do anything disagreeable. If she did he could do his best to leave.

Delamarth lowered her jaw into his curls, lightly dotting kisses against his head. "Does that help?"

Frodo nodded slowly; now exhaustion coupled with the affectionate shock he felt as he collapsed in her arms. A shiver of triumph traveled up her spine at his submission, at the peace that filled his gaze. His lungs began to swell and settle, deep and gentle, very sweet for her.

"Frodo," she whispered.

His eyes flickered open.

"Before you go to sleep . . ." She paused, rolling him over to face her. She cupped his cheek. "Before you go, will you smile for me? Just once?"

Initially a grin spread on Frodo's face, but he didn't broaden it into a full smile yet. "I'm afraid I'm a little lacking for energy, but I'm sure I could fix that."

Delamarth cocked her head, confused, and Frodo rose to meet her. He cupped her cheek as best he could and faintly touched his lips to hers. Delamarth let out a surprised gasp, not quite kissing him back. He lowered in her arms, and a sincere smile stretched across his face.

"There," he murmured. "That's all it needed."

Delamarth bit her lip, wondering how anyone could resist such a tender touch. "But that's not all mine needed." Frodo's grin eased, tired but ready. Delamarth braced her hand between his shoulder blades and kissed him softly. He eased into response, and she squeezed him close with a gentle moan. Her hands rose over his arms as she kissed him persistently, bunching his sleeves over his shoulders. Frodo didn't know how she managed a kiss like that; apparently he was far more modest about expression. Although she didn't cross any lines she obviously didn't care. Her affection ran circles around his: her fingers drifted over his cheek and cupped his neck, rounded his shoulders and wrapped around his hands. He sat perfectly still, taking it in.

She broke away at last to stare down at his dizzy expression. She couldn't explain why making him happy filled her with explosive satisfaction.

"I love you," she said. "I really do. And I think I understand now."

Frodo bit his lip. "That certainly felt like it."

Delamarth laughed, then bent down and pressed her lips solidly against his once more. He inhaled deeply, again unsure how to take this. He knew he felt for her, but he knew without a doubt that one of their great struggles would be this imbalance, what she wanted versus what he could give. She cut off his thought train by deepening the kiss, and Frodo's head fizzled.

It was a good ten or twenty minutes before Frodo convinced her that he needed to sleep. She vibrated beneath him as though her whole body was a racing heart, and it worried him. Her eyes had a dangerous glint to them.

"Delamarth," he insisted, yawning, "you must wait."

Delamarth hesitated above the top of his head, and then nodded as she let him down into the bed. "You're right." She kissed his cheek and slipped into the corner of the room that faded slowly into darkness with the setting sun. "Good night, love."

He wasn't awake enough to respond.


	3. Obsession

**Diem Kieu: O.O! Yep . . . that about sums it up . . . XD Although I confess I don't know that song; I shall perhaps have to look it up. O.o**

 **A/N: Sorry this chapter is so short. :P But the next one is long and angsty, I promise. This mostly explores the psychological depth of what they go through. I guess that's what this whole story is for! :D And if you don't care about the process, the end should be pretty satisfactory for Frodo/Delamarth shippers. That, and I just like writing kissing scenes. ;)**

Delamarth left him alone physically speaking until they reached the Shire once again: Pippin and Merry approached her flirtatiously at first until Sam bitterly explained who she was, and then they all gave her a dark look, especially whenever she tried to sit down by Frodo or take his hand. Thus she told him she would wait until they reached the Shire.

Frodo found himself missing her presence. They hadn't been more than five feet apart for over thirteen months, and now he felt so distant. He watched her huddle in her corner, eating and glaring at the other hobbits.

They reached the Shire almost under cover of darkness, and Frodo reined in his horse. Delamarth had opted to walk the whole way, and did it without complaint, but he would not bring his future wife into the Shire this way, obstinate and powerful as she was.

Frodo reached down from the saddle and lifted Delamarth up behind him. She protested, until he wrapped her arms around his waist. She realized she'd missed being around him, and she sidled up against his back, resting her jaw on his shoulder. He clicked his horse into a steady walk again, keeping behind the other hobbits.

"Frodo, is this healthy for you?" Delamarth asked. She might have sounded timid if Frodo didn't know her to be otherwise.

He hesitated. "What are you talking about?"

"The other hobbits," she said. Frodo's brow furrowed slightly, but he didn't react otherwise to hear her out. "Now that I suppose my feelings are real, I recognize perhaps Sam loves you as well. And I wonder . . . well, I'm not sure if I do it right. They know you, and perhaps they know better than I concerning what is best for you."

Frodo slowed his horse to a stop before Bag End and turned back to Delamarth. She sat upright, leaning back on the horse's flanks to look at him.

"Perhaps they know better than you, and perhaps better than I do." Frodo slipped one leg over the horse and leaped to the ground, then extended his hands to lift Delamarth off. She complied, and he set her down without releasing her waist. His voice dropped as he surveyed her, allowing the desire to love her slip out from its cage. But it changed as he set it free: it changed from greed to affection in one fell swoop, and he gathered her close to him. Moments like this, he knew, would be rare: he didn't have half her capacity for possessiveness, and normally he would be the one held and caressed like a sacred, glass keepsake.

"But I've known for a long time what I truly desire, who I truly care for." He kissed the tip of her nose; she shivered, ready to shatter at the tender touch. It amazed her just to pick the moment apart, realize what Frodo was, what he meant to her, how he was willing to hold her and kiss her, how much she must truly matter to him to cause him love this way. "I love the Shire." He kissed her cheek. "I love Sam, and Pippin, and Merry . . . Bilbo, and Gandalf, the Fellowship." With every name his voice grew softer, and he released a peck to her face, as though determined that not one inch of it would remain unclaimed. "You stole me, and love hardly heals when it is ripped away. I can only imagine the agony of losing you. And I can only imagine that those who truly care for me would never try to separate us again."

Delamarth sensed a fraction of her greedy pull in him; he didn't entirely speak like himself. She imagined there would be odd possessive days where he would act this way and hadn't a doubt she would enjoy them very much.

She smiled then, leaving her eyes wide open as she approached him. She wanted to soak it all in, see his face clearly when she caressed it with her lips. Of course the angle would make that difficult, but she could be more conscious for it this way. She still sensed the initial panic in his eyes, the one that made his heart race against her touch, and her own pulse respond excitedly when she realized she impacted him. Mostly the guesses and predictions of both were based on how they had spent the last year together, unsure if they loathed or loved each other.

Even if the first had ever existed, they need not pay it mind now.

She'd wanted to say words, but the moment she pecked his cheek in return she realized that would be a fruitless endeavor. She nuzzled his cheek and continued brushing kisses against his face. Frodo's eyes sank shut after a minor struggle; beyond the dizziness he couldn't move. He slacked in place until she kissed him solidly, and he responded with a slight sigh. Her energy made him exhausted, somehow, as though he were expending it. She squeezed him close, restless and unsure what she truly wanted, save that she needed him, more and more.

She pulled away suddenly and nestled her face relentlessly against his chest. Frodo blinked and wrapped his arms around her. This energy was not human, nor was it hobbit; she probably could still turn into a Ring. He realized with a jolt that she had never become a hobbit—this would certainly be a lot to get used to, especially when they were alone forever, with no one else around after the day Delamarth could whisk him away.

He didn't know if he could abandon Sam and Bag End just to live with her for the rest of his life. But if he truly loved her, any sacrifice was worth it.


	4. Samwise the Brave

**Diem Kieu: Thanks! :) This makes up the bulk of the story-this next one-and should be the most climactic, I hope. O.o I'm really bad at spoilers; I promise, I'll get better. :D  
Ermergersh! XD I'll have to check it out eventually . . . as long as it isn't suggestive. O.o**

Delamarth ensured that plans went quickly. Frodo attempted to explain to her hobbit customs and standards, but she completely let those fly over her head. Frodo wished he had the chain back: even if she could control him it would be easier to keep an eye on her. Many approached him about the strange woman that didn't need sleep, the one he didn't let stay in Bag End in spite of the fact that all knew they were promised to each other and basically all the legal documents were signed. Frodo wanted to be thorough regardless of what rumors sprung up about her queer ways, and until the ceremony was finished she stayed during the day and went what Frodo termed "hobbit stalking" at night. She insisted she was just protecting him. He realized after a few days that she probably didn't trust the other hobbits, and perhaps believed her own statement of protection.

Sam didn't approach Frodo about it until three days before the wedding itself. He walked in on Frodo writing, a little confused but glad that he couldn't see Delamarth anywhere.

Frodo's ears tensed back, and he allowed them to relax when he felt Sam lift his hand to knock. Before the gardener's knuckles even made contact with the study door Frodo spoke.

"Come on in, Sam," he said quietly.

Sam's brow furrowed; Frodo sounded at peace, almost pleasurable. Sam approached Frodo's desk with caution, and his gaze caught Frodo's missing finger. That finger lifted, and so did Sam's gaze as Frodo sifted his fingers through his hair and sat back from his book. He glanced up at Sam; a gentle smile softened his overall gaze.

It stunned poor Sam. He'd seen Frodo in so much pain as they journeyed home, and he didn't understand now: Frodo was permanently scarred, in fact twisted, now that he claimed to love the Ring. But the glimmer in his crystal eyes hinted otherwise. It looked real enough to Sam.

Frodo's voice broke the silence. "What is it?" His brow creased at his friend's perplexion.

Sam shook it away. "Nothing, Mr. Frodo." Frodo gave him a persistent stare and turned in his chair, allowing his arm to drape over the back. He humorously tapped his foot on the ground, a knowing grin spreading across his features. Sam stuttered, as he knew that Frodo knew exactly what he must be thinking; how Frodo figured these things out, Sam never understood.

"That is . . ." Sam searched for words. He huffed and struggled for a minute, finally bursting through. "I'm afraid, Mr. Frodo!" Frodo jolted, a little shocked, as Sam collapsed against an armchair Frodo had purchased for Delamarth, to watch him while he wrote. But he heard no hisses in the dark corners of the room, so undoubtedly she made this excuse for Sam.

Frodo leaned forward, gently laying his hand on Sam's shoulder. "Afraid of what, Sam?"

"Not of; for! I'm afraid for you!" Sam shook his head. "Frodo, something's off. There are rumors going around, and I'm worried that all the sudden you're being taken over by that—that—that witch! You were hurt so much, but you're so happy all the time now."

Frodo's head tilted.

Sam stammered further when he caught Frodo's gaze. "I mean, I'm glad you're happy. You laugh and you smile now, but I hardly ever see you anymore, and I'm afraid I won't see you again, really! It's like she's taking all your time away from you, and I just don't want to lose you after all that's happened, out in Mordor and along that road." Tears sprang to his eyes as he expressed himself, and he sniffled at the end of his statement. "I'm worried it's not real happiness, Mr. Frodo, that she's making it for you just so she can steal you away. I don't trust her."

Frodo's shoulders slumped. "Oh, Sam," he murmured. He softly fingered the tears from Sam's eyes and embraced him. "Sam, I'm all right, and I will always be here with you." A brief cry escaped Sam at this, and he squeezed close to his master. He slipped off from the chair, burying his face in Frodo's lap. Frodo didn't even halt at this; he understood that Sam was concerned, and the deep friendship between them, how valuable their connection was. He stroked Sam's hair back, calming him.

"Delamarth isn't controlling me," he said softly. Sam sniffled again, groping for one of Frodo's hands. Frodo chuckled lightly, more out of sympathy than amusement. "I'm sure if she were controlling me she wouldn't let me do this to you. And she would be angry at it if she were a bad person. But Sam, much as the quest has changed me it has changed her more." He tipped Sam's chin up so the other hobbit stared at hin head-on. He paused when he realized the skin was tear-soaked, and he dried it gently. "I've spent every day with her, you're right, but the more I've learned the more I'm loathe to be apart from her." He kissed his gardener's head affectionately. "I'm glad of your concern, but she is here to protect me every bit as much as you are."

About then, Delamarth emerged from the shadows, a sympathetic gaze trained on Sam. She may have done her best to teach Frodo how to be self-assertive, but in spite of all she thought she could show him (as relationships, he told her, are meant to build those in them), he always made her grow more. She'd learned the ways of kindness and affection from Frodo, true sympathy and love. Her initial nature would never truly change, and he knew that . . . but her manifestation of her thoughts, the very way she saw the world, became different through his eyes.

She approached Frodo from behind. Her graceful feet made no sound, but her presence crept over his back and shoulders as she eased close to him. Frodo's eyes flickered, and Sam stared up at his softening gaze with nothing short of confusion. Frodo slacked away from Sam, leaning against Delamarth while she joined her hands around his chest. Sam's eyes flickered with defiance and apprehension as she caressed Frodo's heart. She inhaled slowly; the steady beat drummed against her fingers.

"Frodo, love," she said at last, "I would like to speak to Sam alone."

Sam's eyes shot wide open. Frodo felt only the barest of concern and showed none. He fingered Delamarth's hand, then lifted it to his lips. Sam backed away, not sure if he wanted to watch. It was a simple kiss, but it lasted longer than Sam had expected; Delamarth's eyes easing shut didn't help at all.

Frodo spoke against her skin. "Of course, just so long as you don't hurt him or frighten him." But they both knew she wouldn't. He pecked her hand again lovingly, then released it and stood. She shook her head.

"Stay here and keep writing, love." Her voice lowered as she pressed a gentle hand to his shoulder. "I'll talk to him outside."

Sam winced when she sweetly kissed his master. He half expected her to bite Frodo, or for a flinch to shudder its way through Frodo's spine, but neither happened. Frodo briefly responded, then sat down and returned to his book with a contented smile on his face.

Delamarth stared at him for a long moment, taking in that pleasure she so loved to see shining in his eyes. She turned to Sam and gestured to the door.

"Guests first, Master Gamgee."

Sam cautiously stepped past her, his eyebrows narrowed. Acting so sweet and gentle had to be a ploy of some kind, although what she wanted from Frodo now that her chances of getting back to Sauron were not above nothing perplexed him.

Delamarth shut the front door behind Sam, then gestured for him to sit down on the little porch swing he'd constructed himself. He realized with a mild ache that Frodo had commissioned this probably for Delamarth, and that they were probably on this swing together often. He dodged a lump in his throat.

"Are you going to sit?" he blurted at last.

Delamarth shook her head. "I am bound to Frodo; I will approach no other creature for any reason, loving, business, or friendship. Tell me, Samwise; what are your concerns?"

Sam licked the inside of his mouth. He hadn't anticipated talking to Delamarth herself, but now, looking at a creature that was obviously more hobbit that she had ever been before, he couldn't think of a rebuke.

"I heard what you said in there," she said, her voice initially growing strained and stern. Sam scrambled away from her; erect and poised as she stood, she could strike at any second. "You fear you are losing him to a Ring with no heart that doesn't truly care about him."

She waited for Sam to respond. Sam had nothing to say, not to that. She stood patiently longer than Sam could have. He also awaited for her to continue, to accept he had nothing and to move on. She stood stock still.

A few minutes passed. Sam did his best to maintain her patience, but soon he began to fidget. It started with his fingers, with his feet, but soon he shifted his entire position from time to time. He grew more antsy, and her gaze followed him calmly. Finally he shot to his feet.

"I saw what you did to Mr. Frodo!" he cried. Delamarth still didn't move; her head shifted up to follow him, but she did not budge. She felt old stirrings of dominance and blind hatred of opposition bubbling within her—she only quelled them when she remembered Frodo.

Sam continued, spitting words rapidly. "All that time, when he would whisper of your weight, of your burden! He was right there; he would have destroyed you! But you tricked him—you seduced his mind and broke my master, my Frodo! And he wasn't himself around you, never! He was harsh, and he sent me away. Frodo would never do that. You've changed him, you devil! And now you've got him all tied up in your cursed net!" Sam could no longer see clearly; an angry squint clouded his eyes, and raging protectiveness he hadn't felt since Gollum's betrayal hid consequences of the moment. He grabbed Delamarth's dress collar and lifted his fist to smack her full in the nose.

Delamarth didn't shut her eyes to brace for impact, although she did sigh deeply to keep herself from throwing Sam over on his back and reasserting to him the truth she knew. Her golden irises pierced Sam's, and for a moment he could sense again.

"He will always be your Frodo," she whispered. "Love has no limitation."

Sam couldn't bring himself to believe that she loved him, and that broke his conviction: he saw her as no lady, but as a Ring of darkness and despair. His fist cracked against her jaw, and she crumpled to the ground. She'd expected him to do something like this, and only hoped Frodo didn't follow them outside. She trembled in place for a moment with the stinging ache against the entire side of her face, the echoing bang inside her bones and the bruise that would build up in a few days.

The gardener brushed his hands off, the fire of his anger still not quenched. He turned to march inside and tell Frodo it was finished, maybe drag the creature into the woods and set her free to be lost until she died.

"Sam," she managed. She stretched her jaw, biting back a groan at the strain of anguish in her skin. Sam listened, his hand above the knob.

She rolled over with a strain to face him and stood. More than half of her mind said to go and hit him back, twice as hard. But Frodo's words from just a few days ago came to her once again. They had been on the porch swing for an hour, resting peacefully in each other's embrace and watching the children of the Shire play in the cool evening just in front of Bag End. He'd leaned down and whispered, "Anger is not a manifestation of strength. It takes discipline and energy—the very definition of strength—to let your hatred go. Any creature can hate, but the truly capable, although they are still angry, may bridle it."

Delamarth inhaled and exhaled slowly. "Sam, you can hit me if you wish; just don't do it to Frodo."

Sam halted before he could go inside. What he had done suddenly hit him, and he stared back at his master's future wife with a sickened heart.

She continued. "And please don't coerce him. I've done that before, and it hurts him."

Sam trotted to her side, but she waved it off. The simple action nearly threw off balance. Sam caught her and brought her back to the porch swing. She scrambled off of it when Sam joined her.

"Miss Delamarth," he tried, and he shook his head. "Miss Delamarth, I'm sorry." He reached forward, gingerly tracing her bruise. She jolted out of the way. "That's going to be a nasty bruise," he said.

She nodded. "I'm aware. I've seen you hit Gollum." She did her best to smirk, but the pain of her cheek cut movement short. She rubbed her skin, and a whimper escaped Sam. "Sam, I don't blame you for feeling worse of me, and I won't ask for an apology for how I've hurt Frodo without proper reprimand," she said, "but would it be so awful if I married your master?"

Sam couldn't find the words for another apology, so he just nodded numbly. Delamarth patted his shoulder and stumbled away, waiting for the strength to heal her bruise before she went to assure Frodo that Sam would be settled with their union.

Shocked minutes passed as Sam sat there. He processed what she had told him, what perhaps he now felt, what he didn't understand. Restless and uncertain what else to do, Sam raced inside. He would tell Frodo what he had done right away. But when he went inside, Frodo was no longer in his chair.

"Mr. Frodo?" Sam called. He crept to Frodo's room, farther down the hall. "Mr. Fro—!"

Sam halted as he came upon the gentle hum of deep, restful breathing. He slipped inside the door, slightly askew, only to find Frodo asleep. Sam wondered how early Frodo woke up every morning; it was only that time when little ones went to bed. Chances were excellent Delamarth came in early, before even the farmers awakened.

The gardener didn't realize he'd approached his sleeping master until suddenly Frodo's gentle face lay before him. Sam smiled at the innate peace in that expresson, the relaxation of Frodo's smooth cheeks and the ever-present cheer etched in his mouth and eyes. Sam leaned forward and kissed the top of Frodo's head before backing out.

"She healed me," Frodo whispered as Sam approached the door.

Sam halted. "Pardon?"

"Delamarth healed me. My pains are all gone . . . all of them, Sam." Frodo rose from bed, and a little tremor scattered through his spine at the innate chill on his bare torso. He lit the lamp beside him; the light snapped over his skin, and Sam gawked at the empty scars on Frodo's chest. He stumbled once again to his master's side, reverently thumbing the scar tissue. He landed solidly in Frodo's arms, flooded with regret.

Frodo rubbed his gardener's back in circles, tired as he was. Delamarth showed up every morning some two hours before sunrise, so Frodo didn't have long in a day before he tired. She also hadn't left until three hours after sunset for the past week or two, and that made sleep even more difficult to attain.

Sam's voice barely pierced his exhaustion. "Oh, Mr. Frodo, I didn't believe her. I didn't trust her, and I hit her, Mr. Frodo! I hit your wife." He sniffled slightly, squeezing close to Frodo. He felt every bit as vulnerable as he had earlier that day, doing the same thing as he did now, but this time he wanted Frodo's forgiveness, not a confession. "She has a bruise now."

Frodo's brow furrowed. He wanted to ask questions, and almost in his muddle chastised Sam for it, but threw it aside.

"I'll talk to her," he whispered. "It's all right, Sam. It's all right."

Soon he gently convinced Sam to go home, and the gardener reluctantly obeyed. He wanted to stay and apologize to Delamarth, but Frodo told him things would be made right.

After a restful night, a presence approached Frodo from behind. His eyes flickered open as he waited for her touch. As was customary for the morning, she didn't do much: she kissed his cheek and rubbed the blanket over his shoulder. No words were exchanged, save a phrase from each of them.

Her sigh carried the weight of change, and perhaps a little reluctance. "I forgive him. Is he ready?"

Frodo smiled, reaching up to cup her hand. He didn't look at her.

"Yes." He kissed her fingertips one by one. "I'm so proud of you, Delamarth; I think you're ready too."


	5. Yours Forever

**Diem Kieu: Thanks! :) I was thinking about not letting Sam hit her, but I guess it was too good of an opportunity to pass up. :P  
And here's your last one-shot; thank you so much for your reviews!**

 **I hope this satisfies the Frodo/Delamarth shipment. :)**

To say the least, Delamarth's dress wasn't planned to be traditional: neither she nor Frodo could envision her in white, but to make up for what he had done Sam convinced the girl he was courting—Rosie Cotton—to sow a beautiful gown of stark white. Delamarth thought Frodo had brought it for her, and initially felt a little friction with the purity of the color. But she forced herself to remember that this was the day she dedicated to him in the hopes he would love her as much as she did him, and so hesitantly slipped herself into the dress. Pearls dotted the bodice, and it fit her beautifully. She stared in the mirror: she looked less like a shadow and more like a woman. She frowned at the tulle of the skirt, but then her eyes rose from her legs to her torso, then to her face.

Her head cocked, and she peered into the glass: her eyes were still golden, and the same inky black surrounded them as though her eyes were painted into her face, but they shimmered with something new, something real. Frodo's light echoed through the fibers of her irises. No shapes or colors were different, but she suddenly felt beautiful like she never had before.

It surprised Frodo as much as it had her to see her in a white dress, but Frodo suddenly settled into comfort at the sight. She had changed, not what he loved but what had barred him from doing so. He lurched by Sam's side, taking a step towards her as he searched her.

Pippin reached forward and caught Frodo before he could walk all the way back to her. Snapping his gaze away from the woman that would be his, Frodo remembered suddenly that there were others present. He accepted her hand when she came to him, and he pulled her close.

"You look beautiful."

Delamarth smiled and sank against his shoulder as the ceremony carried on: he'd never said that to her before. She let those words echo through her mind, distracted during the remainder of the wedding itself and long into the day. She thought about telling him that he looked wonderful, but cut back her words and realized that even so much as fingering his bright, silver tunic or rolled-up sleeves could get him anxious.

Afterwards she still had a little bit of a distant stare, and Frodo asked her what was wrong.

Delamarth smiled, feeling sheepish for once. She determined to march her way through the confusing feeling. "You." She nudged him. "All of you."

The wedding festivities carried on before them; all the drunk and happy hobbits had forgotten why they were gathered in the party field, so Frodo backed Delamarth under the light-filled tree. Although it wasn't quite noon yet, the clouds in the sky let the lights do their work.

Frodo's brow furrowed. "Why me? What did I do?"

Delamarth nestled against his chest, and Frodo's heart thrummed. "You said I was beautiful," she murmured, nuzzling his cheek. "No one has ever really said that to me before . . . and meant it."

He cocked his head, staring distractedly down at her. He slipped his arm around her waist, then after a brief pause his other arm followed. Frodo waited for the music in the distance to soften, and when it did he swayed with her in a waltz pattern. She tripped a few times, but he steadied her patiently and showed her where to go and how to follow.

"That's it," he murmured. He leaned down and pecked her lips, stilling her heart. Her back tensed, and she lifted off the ground by her heels.

"No one has ever said it before?" he asked finally.

Delamarth shrugged, inching closer to him as they danced. "Well, they've _said_ it, but I don't think they ever meant it more than my powers would force them to."

Frodo slowed her to a stop and tipped up her jaw. His fingers fluttered over her cheek, then stroked down in little increments, as though his hand wanted to be everywhere at once, go deeper and come back, feel her entire face. She leaned into the warm, almost cozy contact.

Before Frodo could say anything more, Merry trotted over to them and bowed dramatically. Delamarth snickered, finally adjusting to the jocosity of Pippin and Merry that she'd never been exposed to.

"Honeymoon carriage awaits, oh grossly obsessed ones," he announced.

Frodo sighed. "We'll be right there, Merry."

"But you aren't yet," Merry insisted impatiently. Frodo remembered he told Merry that he and Pippin could dig into the rest of the food once Frodo and Delamarth were gone; he decided he would rather tell her the things he wished to when they were alone, and so led her up to the carriage that would take them far away, up the Brandywine and to an abandoned hall just south of the Shire border.

He'd told Sam to look after Bag End, that the Bagginses would be back in a month or two, perhaps longer if they felt they needed it.

Delamarth quickly leaped inside, but the perception of tension behind him caused Frodo to pause just before stepping inside. He stared back at Sam, Pippin, and Merry, gathered around. Festive as they had been before, they now looked grave, all of them.

Frodo stepped down with a quiet sigh.

"What if you never come back?" Sam managed.

Frodo glanced back into the carriage, and Delamarth shrugged. He turned back to Sam and stepped towards him. "I may not." Then he hesitated, glancing once again at Delamarth, and tossed his head at Bag End. She nodded.

"But there is something I must show you, Sam," Frodo said. He gently closed the carriage door and grabbed the reins of the two dark brown horses, guiding them forward. The hobbits and horses plodded along silently after Frodo until he approached his front door. He handed the reins of the horses to Pippin and raced inside, emerging again with his red book.

He offered it to Sam, and before he could say anything his gardener initially flipped to the front page.

"There and Back Again, by Bilbo Baggins." Sam scanned the page. "And The Passion of the Ring, by Frodo Baggins." He glanced up, smiling. "You've finished it!"

Frodo shook his head. "There are pages left," he said, "and they are for you, Sam."

Sam furrowed his brow. "But you are coming back. She doesn't mean to steal you away forever!"

Frodo smiled. "She's taken my heart, and I won't deny her time she needs or wants . . . or time I wish to spend with her either." He turned to Merry, and the forlorn hobbit solidly landed in Frodo's embrace. "Think of it this way," he said, releasing Merry with a soft pat on the back. He turned to Pippin and hugged him as well, affectionately rubbing his shoulder. "She will only keep me so long as we are happy. I believe she will come home with me when we are ready."

When he embraced Sam, Frodo whispered that things would be all right. Sam nodded, but squeezed Frodo once more when the latter tried to back away.

"I'll save the last pages for you if you want them," Sam said resolutely while he released Frodo. "After all, there may be more you want to say."

Frodo cocked his head, and Sam gestured to the carriage. "You called it The Passion of the Ring, but you don't know it all yet, Mr. Frodo."

Frodo grinned. "I used that word in the terms of where it came from. Passion once meant 'suffer,' and here it does again. My suffering is over, and so is hers. I don't need you to save pages; I am writing a story of my own, one that does not concern the world nor its fate, but me and mine." He clapped his friend's shoulder. "Just keep the Shire safe, and be happy. I will ask for nothing more."

Delamarth opened the carriage then and extended a hand to Frodo. He quickly pecked Sam's forehead and ducked in with Delamarth. He smiled at his companions as the door closed behind him, and of Delamarth's command the horses turned and trotted far away, guiding the Ring and her Bearer to a new fate.

Frodo never remembered if he actually slept that night. The hall was so old and beautiful, and Delamarth explored it all that night before she was willing to settle. Even so, 'settle' didn't describe the experience very well. Frodo recalled through all his muddle as he tried at last to get to sleep that Delamarth held him all night long, expressed powerfully his impact on her and all of what she thought of him. He didn't remember any words, just that she sounded dazzled and he felt dazzled.

But he must have slept a little, he decided, because when he awakened Delamarth stood at the window of the oak and velvet bedroom. Candles softly glowed against the invading light of dawn, illuminating her pearled dress from all corners.

She looked beautiful, he thought.

Then he remembered she doted on that, and wondered at how he hadn't noticed just how beautiful she was before now. He slipped out of bed, detangling the dark red sheets from his trousers before he could stand. He slipped a white shirt loosely over his head as quietly as he could and stepped over to Delamarth.

Her eyes sank closed while he approached. He wrapped his arms around her waist, and she met him there. Her fingers locked over his.

"You're very beautiful, you know," Frodo whispered, kissing the corner of her jaw. Delamarth sighed in the back of her throat as he allowed his lips to linger there. She expected him to quiet after that, but he repeated that phrase—told her she was beautiful—each time he kissed her, allowing his voice to sink lower and lower.

"And you are most precious to me," she whispered, kissing his hand. "Never forget that."

Finally he turned her slightly and brushed his lips against hers. Delamarth eased into the kiss, lifting her hand behind her shoulder to cup his jaw closer. She stroked his cheek tenderly, and when he released she sank into his arms once again.

They spent many a happy month there, becoming what they never could alone, and forging a bond that never could have been so strong. Frodo wrote a song that he would sing to her as they sat before the fire, as he stroked her hair and dotted kisses against her for kisses in return. He only ever wrote the chorus down, and changed the verses from time to time, just to keep her affection on its toes.

 _"_ _Conquered by fire and shadow,_

 _The future's chance was broken._

 _Amidst my mourning,_

 _The Dark Lord had spoken._

 _My aim, my quest, my sole purpose_

 _To make you in the mountain perish;_

 _But on the way your worth revealed,_

 _Stirring the air with anguish."_

There she would nudge him and tell him he was horrible at rhyming. He had many things he could retort with, but he never did.

His voice softened here, every time, and Delamarth nestled beneath his arm to feel against her skin the notes descend from a higher, climactic tune to a low, soothing purr that radiated throughout Frodo's body.

 _"_ _But now, before a new fire,_

 _We caress what we might have missed._

 _My Ring, my Precious, I love you dearly . . ."_ He would trail off here, inching closer to her. She would let her eyes sink closed, and she would near him until his love shielded her like a cloak of thick silk. She breathed him in, hardly concealing her need for Frodo in the way her eyelids flickered open and shut and her hands flickered restlessly over his shoulders and arms.

 _"_ _And I've known since the moment we kissed . . ."_ The tune didn't sound like it ended there, but the song did. Frodo brought her close to him and softly pressed his lips against hers; she couldn't help but express back to him, and on occasion tears flooded her eyes when she remembered the lyrics, what might have been if she hadn't lived, if he hadn't saved her and if he hadn't forgiven her.

She would break off of the kiss and let him do what he would—in place—while she spoke. Usually he kissed off her tears or caressed her, never quite understanding what got to her so painfully.

"I love you," she whispered. Sauron never knew, but she could now. "And—thank heavens—I'm yours forever."

 **And here is the end of "Mine Forever", or of "One Ring to Desire Him" for those that prefer to think of it that way. XD  
Huge thanks to Diem Kieu for reviewing, and a big thank you to all that read and love! :)**

 **I bid you all a very fond farewell . . . until we meet again.**

 **-Sev Baggins**


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